Ffamran Aer Heth
by fluidstatic
Summary: Upon the party’s arrival in Archades proper, Balthier goes ahead of the others to tend to “personal business” in the city.


"Ffamran Aer Heth"

Balthier handed the little canvas bag full of pine chops to Jules and crossed his arms.

"Those are for Vaan and the others. See to it that they all catch the cab that comes immediately after this one; I can't have them dallying when there's a sentry out for my neck."

Jules weighed the bag in his hand, pocketed it. "And in the meantime?"

Balthier waved his hand. "As you like. Just don't get them arrested, for the love of Archas."

He turned and made for the cab platform. Fran met him halfway there.

"You are going on alone? I won't allow it."

"Don't be difficult, Fran. I have business in Tsenoble, and they're likely to incarcerate us both if we're seen together. You're better off in the company of the others; the police here won't see fit to arrest a handful of tourists."

Her eyes narrowed a fraction, and her nose twitched.

"You say you make for Tsenoble?"

He nodded. He knew Fran could smell his intentions, and did not elaborate aloud on his plans. She blinked, and twitched her left ear in resolute decision.

"I will accompany you. It is only right that I be with you for this."

He smiled ruefully at her tone, touched as it was with concern.

"Fran. I'd really rather you didn't risk your beautiful neck for a few gravestones."

* * *

Three white roses in hand, he made his way through the cemetery on quiet footsteps. He'd never liked this place, no matter how many times he'd come, but somehow having been away for six years made it seem almost a pleasure to return.

He stopped at a plot roughly fenced in with overgrown arborvitae.

"I'm home…"

The plot was a dingy, overgrown mess; he scowled.

"Father's not been by in a while, I see."

He knelt and began cutting weeds away from one of the gravestones with his dagger, rubbing dirt out of the engraved letters upon it with his handkerchief. Dirt and ragweed burrs clung to his shirt cuffs; he ignored this.

Pescan Demen Bunansa. 672 – 685 OV. The plague had devoured his brother from within, making him small and grey like a starving orphan, babbling with pain. Balthier could remember only a faint snippet of the funeral; he had tried to rouse his brother from the coffin, while Cid held him, weeping into his hair.

Balthier tugged at the beaded bracelet on his wrist; the glass bead in the center was shaped like an Ichthon in Pescan's memory. After a moment's pause, he addressed the gravestone directly.

"You promised you'd haunt me in my sleep. So, go on, tell me; where have you been?"

He shook his head and laid one of the flowers in his hand over his brother's name.

"Don't misunderstand. I'm not angry with you… I just would have liked the company."

His lips twitched is a rueful smirk as he turned to the gravestone to his right.

Lanas Reinan Bunansa. 668 – 685 OV. He'd clung to life a little longer than Pescan, but what did it matter? Eventually he'd lost the ability to eat, and drifted away. Cid didn't come out of his room for three days, too broken even to weep.

Balthier dug up a coerltooth weed whose leaves obscured his eldest brother's name, threw it into the bushes, and replaced it with another of the flowers he'd brought.

"What do you think, Lanas? I'm a kept man now. You always said you'd throw me a party if I ever took a lover. Ah…" – He grinned shyly – "I'd have sold the Strahl to see your face when Fran . . ."

He couldn't finish the sentence; his throat was on fire.

At last he turned to the gravestone in the center of the plot, the black marble dingy with neglect. Tutting bitterly to himself, he began to shine the stone with his handkerchief, scrubbing until the name etched upon it could be read plainly again.

Midaine Cavinas Bunansa. 649 – 680 OV. He traced the first three letters of his mother's name solemnly with his trigger finger. Birthing him had taken her; sometimes he still wished he'd died in her place.

"I hope you haven't been weeping on my account, mother. You understand why I've been away, don't you?"

He stared gloomily at the epitaph etched into the marble beneath her name.

-- Ffamran Aer Heth --

…Victorious Over Death.

"I'm not, exactly," he whispered. "…Though I do try, in my way."

He got to his feet.

"I need you all to grant me a favor. Forgive Cid, if you can. And… forgive me, too."

After a moment he scowled and turned away. The dead cannot hear the living, he reminded himself, and made his way back into the city proper, in search of a glass of brandy to calm his trembling hands.


End file.
